


A Spy on the Inside

by AdotHann



Series: Hamilton Kingsman Drabbles [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alexander Hamilton fights people, Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Case Fic, Drabbles, Espionage, Gen, Kingsman fusion, Kingsman: Secret Service - Freeform, Spies, basically theyre all spies and this is the best thing I've ever come up with, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 07:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11869947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdotHann/pseuds/AdotHann
Summary: In his head, Alexander cursed Lafayette, the Lancelot of the Kingsman set, who was probably still outside painting his nails and waiting for Alex’s signal, which he couldn’t fucking send because of the stupid fucking comms. Then he cursed Yvain and Merlin for fucking over the comm system in the fucking first place. Then he cursed their stupid fucking code names. This entire mission was going to shit.-(a.k.a. the Kingsman AU that no one asked me to write but I wrote anyway because I'm really excited about the new movie)





	A Spy on the Inside

**Author's Note:**

> There's a guide to codenames at the end if you're struggling. It also includes a whole bunch of people who didn't actually turn up in this fanfiction because I was planning to make it longer.

_Then_

There was a flick of a knife, too fast to really be seen, and a crease in the back of Galahad’s jacket that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Angelica's stomach churned as her mind caught up with the situation on the screen; that wasn’t a crease.

It happened slowly at first, the way that the world goes into slow motion when something particularly horrifying and violent is about to happen, then all at once like an avalanche. Agent Galahad’s left side slid away from his right, split down the middle like an anatomy diagram, and the two halves toppled away from one another. In the space where Galahad had been, revealed as he'd fallen like a stage curtain dropping, stood a sharply dressed, sandy haired man with a pair of the most unlikely prosthetic legs Angelica had ever seen. 

The screen flicked off.

There was silence.

Angelica's nails dug into the expensive, wooden side panelling of the London shop's back room.

“Do we know who did this, Yvain?” Angelica asked, her eyes on the screen and her expression unreadable.

 _“No, not yet. I’m looking into it.”_ Came Peggy’s – no, she was _Yvain_ now– voice from across the comm line, then the telltale flick of someone taking their glasses off.

And now she had to do... something. She stared at the meeting room door. She had to talk to Arthur. She willed her feet to move the few paces across the hall and shoved the door open.

He was there already, of course, staring at the now-blank screen and looking as calm as ever, save for the tense line of his shoulders and his whitening knuckles. To anyone else he might have looked as if he'd simply been watching the news, but Angelica knew better. George Washington was adept at hiding his emotions, but Angelica had known him too long not to pick up on his tells. 

“I suppose, Merlin,” Washington said through carefully gritted teeth, “That we’ll be needing that brandy again.”

“Yes, Arthur.” Angelica said, her voice purposefully emotionless. She remained in the doorway. Surely there was more to say than that? Surely Galahad deserved some more honour and ceremony than a sip out of a dusty fucking glass of brandy.

Washington didn’t turn to face her. “Yes?”

Angelica fumed, ready to insist that her mentor get some kind of legacy, her eyes burning dangerously. Then, in an instant, the fire was gone.

She realised what she really wanted to say.

“What was Galahad’s name?” She asked. Washington’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“You were one of his candidates.” Washington said quietly. She answered his silent question.

Angelica shook her head. “Somehow it never came up. He was always rather secretive about the ... _other_ half of his life.”

She smiled sadly. Secretive was a fucking understatement. They'd worked together for half a decade and she didn't know his name. She'd never been angry about it though. If he hadn't trusted her then he wouldn't have worked with her so often. No, Galahad just hadn't been good at talking about himself. It was almost like he hadn't known how to breach the subject. So his name became a distant, illusive concept that Angelica had never really had the energy to chase.

For a moment Washington said nothing. His fists remained clenched and his knuckles whitened, but  his face relaxed somewhat. Angelica saw a rare moment of grief flash across his face; she looked away out of respect.

“Hugh. Hugh Mercer.”

Hugh Mercer. The name felt right somehow. Distantly she recalled him complaining about how pretentious his name sounded. Hugh definitely fit the bill. 

Hugh - no, he was still Galahad to her - hadn't been entirely distant, of course. He'd let some things slip over the years things; his wife's name, his daughter's favourite flavour of ice cream and the name of her favourite teddy, the fact that he had a wife and daughter. She'd even met them once, a fluke chance when they'd run into one another in public. Galahad had been delighted to introduce them to her (though, of course, she became Angelica from Finance rather than Agent Merlin.) He'd even gone as far as inviting her out for ice cream with them. His daughter had -

Oh Christ. His family.

Angelica hesitated again. “Would you like me to – “

“I’ll speak to his family.” Washington said, suddenly sounding very tired, “You should focus on finding yourself a candidate – surely you’ve run out of sisters by now.”

The joke fell flat, but Angelica tried for a smile anyway. It came out hollow.

“Not quite yet,” Angelica said, then she paused to consider Washington’s suddenly pensive expression. “Do _you_ have someone in mind, sir?”

Washington’s expression was distant. Greif and guilt still lined his face like scars, but there was something else there too, something that she couldn’t quite name. It was an expression she recognised. Angelica remembered a time when Galahad had stood behind her in a tailor’s shop mirror and spoken about potential.

“Yes.” Washington said. “I believe I do.”

 

* * *

 

_Now_

It had been four years since Alexander Hamilton first donned the mantel of _Agent Galahad_ , and five since he’d first stepped into dressing room two and encountered the Kingsman’s base first hand. The job still thrilled him; every morning when he got into the elevator at the London Shop, he paused to admire the life that he’d made for himself. He’d stand there and inhale the smell of new fabric and old brickwork, fell of his sharp suit and the swell of cold air on his face as the platform delved deeper into the world beneath London, and congratulate himself on his wonderfully successful and influential career. Sometimes he’d chuckle to himself and think _God only knows why I ever thought I wanted to go into politics instead of this._

That was the bit that he liked; the grandeur, the gadgets, the fancy clothing, the fact that he could honestly say that he was saving the world on the regular (or at least, he could have if it hadn’t been highly classified.) The bit that he didn’t like was hanging around in damp, nicotine stained corridors in enemy bases, surrounded by enemy security while you team wasn’t fucking responding.  

“Lancelot, report in.” Alexander hissed as loudly as he dared – and probably too loud, because one of the guards turned to face his pathetic hiding spot. “ _Lancelot_.”

There was a weird (and absolutely terrifying) static crackle from his earpiece, but still no answer.

“Fuck!” He hissed, barely more than an exhale because he didn’t dare say anything louder. He was almost glad that the earpieces weren’t working because he sounded really bloody desperate. “Lafayette! Come in!”

This time there wasn’t even static, just silence. Distantly Alex wondered when the _hell_ he started relying on other people so heavily. He used to be so self sufficient.

In his head, Alexander cursed Lafayette, the Lancelot of the Kingsman set, who was probably still outside painting his nails and waiting for Alex’s signal, which he couldn’t fucking send because of the stupid fucking comms. Then he cursed Yvain and Merlin for fucking over the comm system in the fucking first place. _Then_ he cursed their stupid fucking code names. This entire mission was going to shit.

He calmed his breathing (or tried to) and snuck his head around the door again. 11 Guards. _Fuck_.

He reviewed his situation again. No comms, no bullets, and no idea where in this bloody building he is and no less than 11 guards between him and the closest exit, or at least what looks like the closest exit because he still has no clue where he is. To top it all off his extraction plan depends totally on Lancelot, making it so useless that it may as well have been devised by _John fucking Adams._

On a very small bright side he also has the memory stick with a copy of the system that they’ll need to override the nuclear launch codes, (he ignored the nagging notion that this memory stick would only be useful if he could get it back to Peggy. This was the only positive line of thinking he had and, damn it, he was going to cling to it.)

Everything would be fine, just as long as he got out of there alive.

Back to the matter at hand; 11 guards.

He reasoned that he could probably take out 3 of the goons on his own, maybe 4 if his signet ring had enough charge left, before the others realised what the hell was going on. But 1 against 8 (especially when those 8 probably have some sort of formal training) is shitty odds, even for a Kingsman.

Alex cursed again and wished sorely that the exit (if it even was an exit,) wasn’t on the other side of the goon’s break room. After a moment more of hesitation and deep breathing he finally thought _fuck it, I may as well_.

He slipped around the corner silently, moving like a shadow, and knocked the first guard in the back of the head violently with the butt of his pistol, knocking him out cold. But Alex hadn’t anticipated that the man’s fall would have sent him crashing into a table full of (fragile) china cups. So much for stealth.

Suddenly the room was a frenzy of free-for-all movement. Alex kicked over a tea urn, sending boiling water surging over three goons, then spun to his left to intercept another attack. He caught a sharp kick to the stomach, but managed to elbow the assailant hard enough to send him crashing into two other guards.

Seeing the other goons rounding on him already, Alexander grabbed the nearest object without checking what it was – something long and thin and solid, and at this point that was enough – and took out another man, (if Alex had had more time he would have paused to admire the dude’s tattoos; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that many naked women on one guy.)  Then Alex whirled to his other side and gave another guard a sharp shove, sending him tumbling out of the window. He didn’t have time to think about how far the fall was.

The goon landed a punch to his face and there was a worrying clicking noise from inside his glasses. Alex was about to start cursing again when –

 _“Galahad, are you there?”_ Came rather crackly, accented a voice from his earpiece. Alex sighed with relief. The comms were _finally_ back on line.

In his elation at finally getting communication back, Alex forgot to keep track of his opponents. His eyes darted around the room. There was now only one other man left standing in the room, and Alex was about 90% sure that there should have been more than that. With some mad mathematics _(butt of the gun + 3 with the tea urn and 2 more in the pile by the cabinet, the ones with the broom and the dude he threw out the widow)_ he was missing 3 guys. Well fuck. There was no knowing whether they’d gone to get help or just bolted.

(Not that he would have blamed them for bolting. That fight was pretty damn good, even if he said so himself.)

He knocked out the last goon with a sharp hit from his elbow to the man’s left temple, and plucked the plastic coffee cup out of his hand as he falls. It’s a latte with a little too much sugar – so not exactly a martini, but it would have to do.

“Hey Lancelot,” He said a cheerily, wiping blood from his nose, “Where is my _god_ damn extraction plan?”

Lancelot snorted into his comm. “Do you want _Guns_ or _Ships_? I brought both.”

 

It turned out that _Guns_ and _Ships_ weren’t names of two separate extraction plans, as Alex had thought, but literal _guns_ and _ships_. Alex wasn’t sure why Lafayette had thought guns would be a good extraction plan or why he’d brought a fucking air ship instead of the jump jet, which was mission standard. Eventually he gave up and put it down to the age old Kingsman proverb; _Lafayette works in mysterious ways and gets away with it because he’s Washington’s favourite._

It also turned out that Lafayette really _had_ been painting his nails while Alexander was fighting off twelve men in a hostile and unfamiliar base. Alex had almost punched him when he saw the three fingers on his left hand, decorated with a very pretty shade of coral.  

Lafayette, of course, had simply snorted and tossed Peggy (“ _Yvain when we’re in the field, Alex,” She’d reminded him, despite the fact that they were no longer in the field,_ ) the memory stick.

“We saved the world, didn’t we?” Lafayette said easily, “that’s what counts.” Then he took Alex’s hand, bloody knuckles and all, and began to paint his finger nails that same shade of coral.

Alex sighs and sits back. He lets Laf paint his nails and accepts a lukewarm can of coke and a first aid kit from Peggy.

That’s the thing about being a super spy; the novelty wears off pretty fast. There’s only so many times you can go have a wild party after saving the world when you’re saving the world on a bi-weekly basis before you get sick of partying all together. Not that Alex was much of a party person to begin with.  

"So," Alex asked amiably, feeling a little more human now that his wounds were patched up and his nails were painted, "what's next?"

 

Kingsman base was as stunning as it had ever been; an endless, pristine, fluorescently lit, rabbit warren of storage spaces, armouries, bunk rooms, offices, labs, training rooms, aircraft hangers, and hundreds of other places that Alex had yet to discover. Not that he ever had much time for exploring, what with the world trying to nuke itself every two days.

Angelica's office was usually just as blank and pristine and elegant as any of the other underground rooms, but today it was rather full of empty coffee cups and slightly damaged agents. Alex picked at a spot of blood on the cuff of his shirt and wondered absently if it was his own.

“So who’s trying to end the world this time?” Jefferson asked, lounging back on Angelica’s desk. She glared daggers at him and honestly, Alex felt the same. Jefferson, or _Agent Percival_ if you were feeling particularly formal, was a total ass. The man had gotten through basic training through a toxic combination of nepotism and blind luck, and had survived his 4-year career simply because God hated Alexander. He was stubborn, selfish and, more often than not, totally wrong. He probably wouldn’t know a compromise or teamwork if it slapped him in the face with a dead fish (a creature which, coincidentally, probably had better dress sense than him.)

“Two Starbucks runs says it’s the Russian mob again.” Says Peggy, who was just passing through the briefing room with 13 Starbucks cups balanced precariously. Without dropping anything she manages to set one down in front of Angelica and hands two to Alex. It’s times like this that Alexander genuinely believes her wild (and most likely fake) stories about how she ran off to join the circus as a teen.

“It better not be.” Jefferson said, looking at the coffee mournfully as it disappear through the door with Peggy. Alex grasps his two cups a little tighter. “I just got back from dealing with the Russian Mob. They can’t be at it again already.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not the Russian mob.” Angelica said. Alex took a long, relieved sip of his coffee; he hated to agree with Jefferson on anything but he was glad it wasn’t not the Russians again. He’s had enough of them to last a life time. Angelica clicked a few more keys, and brought up a very familiar image.

“It’s George Hanover.”

Alex choked on his coffee.

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

For a second Alex thought he might have heard wrong, but the picture on the screen was definitely _George fucking Hanover_. George Hanover, the philanthropist, play-boy, party-going, nightclub-empire-owning billionaire. George Hanover, the shifty, household name, self-made-royalty who everyone loved to hate. George Hanover, an actual caricature of British, aristocratic celebrity.

 Something twisted in Alex’s gut and _no, not really, this can’t honestly be a threat_. George Hanover who was _very_ vocal about his bizarre, backwards, controversial political views.

Jefferson scoffed. “What’s Hanover going to do? Party at us? Take over America with free drinks?”

Angelica raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Jefferson said, “You’re kidding.”

“As I’m sure you know, Hanover seems to think that America and the commonwealth would be much better off under British rule.” Angelica said, as if speaking to a toddler. Jefferson scowled. “We have strong reason to believe that he intends to take over America by threatening the civilian population.

“How the hell is one guy going to take the entire population of the United States hostage?” Jefferson asked, floored.

“Like this.”

Angelica brought up a new window on the screen; security footage from inside a nightclub, probably one of Hanover’s. It didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. Then, quite suddenly, it did.

There was a subtle shift in the party-goers movements. The dancing became more frantic. No one stopped to sit down, no one stopped to get drinks. It was just a constant frenzy of movement. Angelica fast forwarded the video and finally people began to stop dancing; the first to collapse was a pretty, dark skinned girl in a red dress. The video remained on fast forward; the girl remained on the floor.

“Hanover seems to have developed a type of neurological-wave that targets the movement centres of your brain and completely suSppresses your ability to stop. This is just a localized blast but, hypothetically he could affect the entire country. We think he intends to use it as a weapon.”

They watched in horror as more and more club-goers dropped and didn’t get back up.

“Off with your head.” Alexander said, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Dance ‘til you’re dead.” Jefferson finished quietly.

The last dancer collapsed, they watched in silence as he lay there twitching monstrously. Finally, after an agonizing eternity, he was still. 

“He wasn’t at all worried about testing it in one of his own clubs.”Alexander said with chill in his voice. “There’s no way he’s going to be able to cover this incident up for long. Whatever he’s going to do, he’s going to do it soon.”

“Arthur estimates that we have five days at most.” Angelica admitted. “We’re putting _everyone_ on this.”

George Hanover was going to take over America and the Common Wealth. Through the medium of dance. Well _shit_.

“Well shit.” Jefferson said, echoing Alex’s thoughts exactly. 

“George Hanover is a filthy, insane, British, imperialistic freak. And we’re fucked.” Alex said and no one, not even Jefferson – and, god, doesn’t that tell you something about how insane this guy is? – argued with him.“However,” Alex continued a little contemplatively, “This could be exactly the opportunity we need to change up our system of government. Congress is stagnant, our constitution needs amendments and –“

“The human brain can only withstand 12 minutes exposure to the neurowave, children and invalids even less.  You know how long it takes anyone in power in America to come to a decision worth acting on, especially in times of crisis.” Angelica said ominously.

“A whole lot longer than 12 minutes.” Jefferson said unnecessarily.

“Oh.” Alex says.

Jefferson cursed under his breath. “He going to kill at least half of America’s civilian population, and probably get the UK nuked.”

Alexander went back to studying the picture of Hanover. It’s a recent shot, barely taken a few days ago; the new skyscraper on Canary Warf is just peeping over the buildings in the background and, for want of something more interesting to do, Alex had been keeping track of it on his morning walks to work. Hanover was decked in a lot of tacky gold chains, garishly polished Nikes, and a truly hideous flat cap. Everything about him set Alex’s teeth on edge.

Hanover wasn’t the only man in the picture; beside him stands a short, sandy-haired man standing wearing really bizarre shoes. On closer inspection Alex realises that they aren’t shoes at all, but instead a pair of incredibly high end prosthetics.

“I recognise his valet.” Jefferson said, and zoomed in on the figure. “I was on a recon mission in a factory in Argentina six weeks ago – or I was supposed to be. He wouldn’t let me get near the place.”

Angelica nodded. “That’s where he’s manufacturing the speakers. Hanover’s plan has been on our raider for a while now, but we had no idea how close he was to bringing it to light.”

Angelica did something with the keyboard and suddenly they were no longer looking at a photograph, but at security footage from inside the back room of one of Hanover’s nightclubs. Alex watched in horror as the valet-cum-body-guard effortlessly sliced off an assailant’s arm with his razor-like prosthetic feet.

Jefferson gave a low whistle.

“Samuel Seabury,” Angelica read, “A valet with a very specific skill set.”

In the video, more guards arrived on scene. Seabury took them out – brutally, gorily, unashamedly – in seconds, leaving the room strewn with a mess of detached, dismembered body parts. With a rather bored expression, Seabury removed the silk handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped a spray of blood from his glasses.

“No fucking kidding.” Alex said with a low whistle, "How did we get all of this intel anyway? I thought you said the valet wouldn't let us get close to them."

Angelica quirked an eyebrow. "Washington did the field work some time ago."

Her tone, quite clearly, told them not peruse that line of questioning further. There was a tense pause.

"So we have to stop nutter and his valet who has knives for feet from taking over the free world with disco fever." Jefferson summarized, "What's the plan?"

Angelica smiled sharply. "This is where it gets fun."

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are interested:
> 
> Washington - Arthur, our fearless leader  
> Angelica - Merlin, because she's the smart one  
> Peggy - Yvain  
> Eliza - Too good and pure for this violent spy bullshit  
> Alexander - Galahad (currently)  
> Hugh Mercer - Galahad (previously)  
> Laurens - Gawain  
> Hercules - Like Eliza, he's not a spy  
> Lafayette - Lancelot, for obvious reasons  
> Jefferson - Percival  
> Madison - Kay  
> Burr - Tristan, because I'm fairly sure Tristan had an affair with one of his enemy's wives/betrothed and Theodosia, right?
> 
> I was tempted to make Alexander Yvain because 1) Yvain was a bastard and an immigrant and these labels seemed to haunt him throughout the tales he features in 2) Like Alex (again) he totally fucked up his marriage, managed to get it back on track and then DIED and finally 3) his symbol was a lion and Lafayette's nickname for Alex was Little Lion so....
> 
> The parallels there are incredible but I also I really hate the name Yvain and I didn't want to have to keep writing it out :\
> 
> Anyway, leave me comments because they fuel me.


End file.
